And I love him. He knows me, and I see him.

“And when I told Petra . . .” He swallows. “I guess—she kind of got into my head. I mean, I was already in my head, but she said things that fucked with me.”

“What do you mean?” I say.

His expression verges on pained.

“You can tell me,” I promise.

“It’s just,” he says, “Peter told her about your dad. And Petra started saying this stuff, about how you’d been through too much. That you weren’t the kind of person who could deal with uncertainty. She and I are, but not you and Peter.”

“And what, she’s the expert on what I can and can’t deal with?” I ask.

He smiles faintly. His hands circle my wrists, his thumbs running up and down my veins as his face softens. “They broke up because Petra decided she didn’t want kids, and Peter did.”

“Oh,” I say.

His gaze drops, his touch stilling. “And she reminded me that’s something that matters to you too. And I already knew that. It wasn’t a surprise. But . . .” He chews on his bottom lip, his gaze so warm and fluid I feel like I could swan-dive into it, like it would rush up to meet me on every side.

“She pointed out that I’m not exactly equipped for that,” he murmurs, “and all I could think about was her family, and what they thought of me. They were nice, but they never thought I was good enough. And then there’s my family shit, and everything your dad’s put you through. And I just thought . . .” His Adam’s apple bobs. “Suddenly it seemed selfish of me. To love you.”

At the tenderness in his face and touch, the need in his expression, my heart cracks.

“To try to be with you, when I know what you want,” he says under his breath. “I can’t give you a family like the Collinses or the Comers. I feel like . . . like there’s so much space between who I am and who I want to be, and there’s no one to show me how to get there. And it doesn’t really make sense, but I thought . . . maybe if I could get through to your dad, if I could help fix that, then it would prove I’m capable. Of giving you everything you want.”

“Miles,” I begin.

“That’s why I freaked out,” he continues. “And as soon as I saw you again, I felt so stupid. Because I’d spent the last two days acting like you were Petra.

“Because deep down, she always thought she was settling, and so I did too. I always felt like I was making up for something, or trying to win her. And I thought that made me lucky, to be with someone who chose me even though no one in her life ‘got it.’ ”

His voice thickens: “I didn’t learn what love was supposed to feel like. It doesn’t feel natural, or come easily to me, to let anyone close. But you—you make love so easy, Daphne. You make me think I already deserve it, exactly how I am.

“And I feel lucky every time you look at me. Not because I think I’ve managed to earn you, but because it feels like you don’t need me to. Like you just . . . like me.” He shakes his head, voice fraying as he corrects himself: “Like you love me. That’s how I feel with you.

“And I know I’m not who you pictured yourself with, but I think I could be, eventually. If you’ll let me. So don’t go. Because I don’t want you to. Because you’re my best friend, and I’m in love with you.”

“Miles,” I say again.

“I know we’re really different,” he says, “but I love all the things about you that aren’t like me. I love that you feel your feelings. I love that you know what you want. I love that you’re always where you say you’ll be, when you say you’ll be there.”

“Miles.” His brows pinch together, a mix of hope and fear on his face that I feel deep in my own gut. “Can I show you something?”

His features flatten. After a second, he nods.

I take his hand, his pulse thundering into my palm, as I lead him down the sidewalk. We turn right at the cross street and stop, at the house on the corner, facing the broken gate and crooked For Sale sign.

His eyes dart to the front door, then back to me.

“You’re right,” I say.

He blinks.

“When I moved here,” I say, “I had a picture in my head. I knew exactly what my house was going to look like, and who I’d spend the holidays with, and I knew who we’d go out with on the weekends, and I had an idea of how many kids I’d have and even what their names would be. I could basically picture every single day of the rest of my life.

“I’m not spontaneous,” I say. “Surprises make me nervous, and I’ve moved around too much to want to, like, live in a van, or backpack for months.”

“I don’t need that,” Miles rasps. “I don’t think I even want that anymore, if I ever did.”

“That’s my point,” I say.

He shakes his head once, brow knitted tight.

“I knew exactly what to expect for the rest of my life,” I explain, “and it was comforting to me. But then it blew up, and all I could think about was running, getting away from the mess. Then one day, after we started getting close, I was walking to work, and I saw this house.”

My voice goes husky. “It was the first time in a year that I wanted something new. When you told me how you felt”—I swallow that same glowing lightbulb down—“that you loved me, that’s why I panicked.”

He looks toward the run-down bungalow. “Because I don’t fit.”

My throat burns, like there’s too much pressure building in my chest, steam that needs to be let out.

“Because I could see it,” I say. “Right away. I could see a whole new life, all these new things to want, and that’s fucking terrifying, Miles.”

His hands fly up to cradle my jaw. “I won’t hurt you, Daphne.”

“You don’t know that,” I whisper.

“I know how hard I’ll try,” he says. “Just stay. I love you. I want you. Stay.”

My hands climb up to the back of his neck, another uncontrollable baring of my heart.

He swallows hard. “Come home. Please.”

“I can’t.” I shake my head. Before he can argue, I go on: “No matter what you said today, I’d already made up my mind.”

He draws back, a shadow passing over his face.

I wasn’t intentionally obfuscating the point, but seeing his shattered look, I realize I’ve phrased this the worst way possible.

“No!” I say. “I mean, regardless of what happens between us, I’m not done here.”

His head just barely cocks, a wave of love pummeling me at the familiar gesture.

“I’m getting my own place,” I explain.

After a flicker of confusion, he looks sidelong toward the For Sale sign.

“Not that. I can’t afford that. I found a one-bedroom. Close to Fika.”

“I really don’t understand, Daphne.”

“You mean so much to me, Miles,” I say. “So much. But you can’t be everything. You were right that I’d love it here. I do. And you’re a huge part of why I want to build a life here. But I can’t build it around you. If this ends, I need to know that I don’t just disappear. I need to have my own stuff that’s not about anyone else. Whether it works out between us or not, I need that.”

“I want it to work,” he insists. “It can.”

“I think so too,” I promise. “I can’t imagine ever meeting anyone more wonderful than you, so if it doesn’t work, I’m going to stay single, go to a sperm bank, and get into CrossFit.”

A goofy smile overtakes his face. “You really think so?”

“Not the CrossFit part. I’m incredibly lazy,” I say. “But the rest of it. You’re wonderful. You’re the reason for the word wonderful. It really shouldn’t be used for anything else. You make me want to see the best in everyone. You’re the person I want to be with when everything’s going wrong, instead of just wanting to skip over those times entirely. I love that you’re so present that you always forget to keep track of your phone, and I love that when you’re late, you never make excuses but you always have a good reason.